


The Rot

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Gen, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Fitz and Dr. Simmons have visitors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rot

They are pulling teeth out of a walker when someone cuts through their steel doors.  First and foremost, Fitz finds that deeply offensive, as he’d put quite some effort into the building of that door.  Absolutely zombie-proof, leading right down into the bunker and the lab.  It’s not their only door, they’re not so stupid as to only have one way in and one way out, but it was their nicest door, and now it’s ruined.

“Bloody hell,” Fitz says.  Simmons drops a tooth into the petri dish Fitz is holding and they silently agree to go greet their visitor.

“Stay right where you are,” Simmons tells the walker, flicking one filthy finger at the creature’s decaying nose.  It groans and she fondly smiles back.

“Hello?” Fitz calls.  “Terribly sorry, we’re not used to visitors.”  The footsteps they hear are heavy but solid.  Not shambling like the steps of the undead.  Two sets, actually.  Both solid.

“We can put some tea on, if you’d like,” Simmons adds.  The zombie behind her groans.  She turns her head towards him.  “Quiet, Gregory,” Simmons says.  “We have guests.”

  
  


And what guests they are.  Two tall, strapping young men, clean cut and shaven and in fresh clothes.  Armed to the teeth, of course, but that’s hardly a surprise.

“Hello there,” Fitz says.

“Dr. Fitzsimmons?” the taller one asks.

They giggle.  “Fitz,” says Simmons, point to her partner.

“Simmons,” Fitz says, gesturing to her.  She puffs her chest with pride.

“Welcome, welcome,” Simmons says.  “I should certainly go put tea on.  Don’t you think tea would be nice?”

“Tea would be lovely, Simmons,” Fitz says.  “But I’ll put it on.  You’re the better hostess.”

“Aw, Fitz,” she says.  She is acutely aware of how the soldiers are staring at them.  Honestly, surprise should be long dead by now.  And perhaps she and Fitz are a bit unkept, but that’s no reason to gawk.

“SHIELD needs you,” the tall one says.

“SHIELD?” Simmons asks.  Gregory makes a noise.  “What on earth is SHIELD?”

“We’re, well,” the shorter one has a finely clipped beard and a voice like mate leaves.  “We’re a secret government organization, and we’re trying to cull the plague.”

“Key word being trying, I suppose,” Simmons says, in a knowing voice.  They look scandalized.  “Just a joke,” she says.  “Just a silly little joke.  What brings you to our little home?” she asks.  “Misters-”

“Just call me Triplett,” says the one with a beard.  “Or Trip.”

“Ward’s fine,” adds the other one.

“Trip and Ward,” Simmons says.  “Welcome to the lab.”

Gregory moans, and Simmons excitedly claps her hands, rushing to his side.  “Did you hear that, boys?” she adds.  “Gregory is pleased to see you!”  

Ward’s already got his sidearm pulled out.  “Please step away from the walker, Dr. Simmons,” he tells her.

She scoffs, like Ward is some small child.  “Oh just Simmons is fine,” she says, waving her hand.  “And don’t worry.  Gregory here is harmless.  Fitz and I, how would you put this?  We declaw all of our subjects before testing.”  She gestures to the stumps where Gregory’s hands would go.  The forearms are held back with straps, pinning him to a stainless steel gurney “We usually take the arms, but we needed more surface area for testing.”

“Testing?” Trip asks.

“Oh, yes,” Simmons says.  “All kinds.  Isn’t this plague just so fascinating?”

  
  


The kettle shrieks, making Trip and Ward flinch without meaning to.  Simmons can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t be so jumpy, boys,” she says.  “Fitz and I have been doing this for upwards of a year, now!  Gregory is practically family.”  She gives his shoulder a reassuring pat.  “Of course, we will have to put him down when he exceeds his usefulness, as we do with all our subjects.  But think of the memories we’ll have!  And fond ones, at that.”

“Gregory has been our smartest subject to date,” Fitz announces, carrying a tray of four mugs and a copper pot.  “Sorry, we’re low on most blends.  I hope everyone enjoys Irish Breakfast.”

“Fitz,” Simmons says.  “It’s almost two o clock!”

“I’m sorry,” Fitz says, and he is.  “But it’s practically all we have left.”

Simmons lets out a resigned sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Trip says.  “I don’t want to pry.  But you two have tea?  And call me crazy, but I think I hear a generator running.  It’s been eighteen months.  How do you two have power all the way out here?”

“It’s simple engineering, really,” Fitz says.

“And a bit of chemistry, of course,” Simmons adds.  “Fitz made the generator and I-”

“We don’t have time for this,” Ward says.  “We don’t have time for tea and smalltalk.  Your country needs you.”

FitzSimmons burst into giggles.  “This isn’t our country,” Simmons says.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Fitz adds.

Ward pinches the bridge of his nose.  “SHIELD needs you two to come up with a cure for the virus.”

“Oh, a cure?” Simmons asks.  “We’ve had a cure for months.”

“At least six months,” Fitz says.  “But where’s the fun in curing it?”

Ward and Trip stare at them, wide eyed.  Ward’s face turns to something furious.  “You’ve had a cure for months?!” he yells.  The room seems to shake in his rage.  “You didn’t think that was something to share with the general public?!”

Gregory pulls against his bonds.  Simmons frowns.  “Well now you’ve upset Gregory,” Simmons chides.  “And honestly, how were we supposed to tell people?  We would’ve radioed SHIELD, probably.”

“I don’t believe that,” Trip says.  “You two seem pretty cozy here.”

“What, exactly, are you implying?” Fitz says.  He’s sneering.  No one ever wants to be on the opposite end of a Fitz sneer.

“I’m saying that I think you two have a few screws loose,” Trip says.  “So just give us the cure, and we’ll let you get back to Gregory.”

“Pass,” Fitz says.

“Absolutely,” Simmons agrees.

“You can’t pass,” Ward says.  “This is non-negotiable.”

“Of course it is,” Simmons says.  “You have no idea where we’ve stored the cure and where we’ve stored our subjects.  You have no idea how to replicate something so complex.”  Her face has darkened, eyes like onyx and voice that drags hot coals.  “You need us, or else you wouldn’t be here.  So let’s make a deal, Trip and Ward.”

“Oh yes,” Fitz says.  “I do so like deals.”

  
  


Ward trains his pistol on them, and the two only grin back, like smug little rabbits.

“Have some tea,” Simmons offers.  “Tea is a terrible thing to waste.”

“The cure,” Ward says.  “How do we know you’re not lying to us?”

FitzSimmons sigh in tandem.  “We can prove it, if we must,” Simmons says.

“It’s quite simple, really,” Fitz says.  “Drink your tea and then we’ll have a demonstration.” 

“I don’t want tea,” Ward says.  He hasn’t lowered his gun.

“Ward,” Trip says.  “Relax.  They’re harmless.”  He looks at the two of them.  “Insane, but harmless.”

“Wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Simmons says.

Trip crosses the threshold, picks up a mug of tea, and takes a sip.  Ward waits a beat.  Trip nods, and takes another.  Ward sighs, and lowers his gun.

“May we please see a demonstration?” Ward asks.  He drinks the Irish Breakfast with a bitter scowl, while Fitz watches. 

“Simmons is fetching it right now,” Fitz says.  “Just wait.”

“What are you two doing to Gregory over here?” Trip asks.  Ward shoots him a furious look.

“Oh, that’s quite fascinating,” Fitz says.  “We’ve been testing to see if they can feel pain.”

“Oh,” Trip says.  “That’s-”

“Can they?” Ward asks.

“It depends,” Fitz says.  “Our data has been inconclusive.  Too many variables.  The length of time the subject’s been infected, the way in which they became infected, age, gender,” he lists them off his fingers.  “We’d need more concentrated sample sizes.”

“So some can,” Ward says.

“Oh yes,” Fitz says.  “Some of them feel quite a bit of pain, actually.”

  
  


“Alright!” Simmons announces, before Ward can ask another question.  “This cure is quite excellent, really.  You only need a small dose.”

“We’ve been trying to evolve it,” Fitz says.  “To do different things with it.”

“We’re working on restoring the brain and only the brain,” Simmons says. “Wouldn’t it be enthralling, a creature with this body and a fully functioning human mind?”

“It would be an abomination,” Ward tells them.

“Please don’t use words like that around Gregory,” Simmons says.  She has the good sense to prep Gregory’s rotting flesh with rubbing alcohol, in preparation for his shot.  “Good boy,” Simmons tells him.  She sticks the needle into his neck and pushes the plunger, releasing purple fluid.

“How long does it take?” Trip asks.

“About five minutes,” Fitz says.  “Our first batch took two hours!”

“Speeding up the process took a month or so of research,” Simmons says, wiping off Gregory’s neck.  Like the thing could bleed.  “But we have perfected a general cure.”

“So now what?” Ward demands.

“You’re rather rude,” Fitz tells Ward, then takes a slurp of tea.  

Ward frowns in response.

  
  


It starts with the heart.  It starts up again, pumping blood through veins.  Skin becomes brighter.  Eyes go from yellow to white.  Hair becomes shiner, fuller.  And blood, that fresh, pumped blood, spurts absolutely everywhere if there is an open wound.  Or, if you’re Gregory, two gaping holes where your hands and wrists used to be.

“Oh dear,” Simmons says.  “He’s screaming.”

And he is, bloody, terrible murder, screaming his head off.  His wild, awake eyes find Trip and Ward.

“Help me,” he pleads, suddenly, words clear and crisp.  “You have to help me!  They’re-”

A shot rings out.  Not from Ward.  Not from Trip.  From Simmons, who kept her silver revolver tucked into her back pocket.  Gregory’s brains stain the gurney.

“They’re so much more useful in their other state,” Simmons notes.  She turns back to her guests.  “But I do hope that was helpful.”

“You killed him,” Ward says.

“Well what were we going to do?” Simmons asks.  “Leave him?”

“He was human again!” Ward says, rising from his seat.

“Don’t yell at her,” Fitz snaps back.  “You wanted a demonstration and you got it.”

Trip puts his mug down.  Shakes his head.  Takes a deep breath.  “Why did you kill him?”

“Because coming back from the dead makes them insane,” Simmons says.  “The cure is much better if applied to freshly bitten subjects.”

“And how do you know that?” Ward demands.

Simmons doesn’t glare, but her eyes are cold and terrible all the same.  “Don’t ask stupid questions,” she says.  “We’ll pack up our cure and our research.  I assume this SHIELD has advanced faculties?”

“The best,” Trip tells her.

“We’ll need subjects,” she says.  “Can you get that for us?”

“We’ll see,” Ward replies.

“I don’t like the sound of we’ll see,” Fitz says.  “Can you get us subjects, or not?”

“Yes,” Trip says.  It might be a lie.  “Clean clothes, hot showers, test subjects, and plenty of tea.”

Their faces break out into bright grins.

“Tea?” Simmons asks, with sparkles in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Fitz says.  “We’ll go pack!”  They scamper off, whispering excitedly, leaving Trip and Ward and what used to be Gregory in the lab.

  
  


Ward takes a moment before turning to Trip.  “They’re insane,” Ward says.  “They’re serial killers.”

“We’ll keep a close eye on them,” Trip says.  “We need that cure.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ward says.  “About them.  About Coulson.”

“So do I,” Trip says.  “But we’ve got our orders.”  They look at Gregory’s brain matter, flecked on steel.  “Sorry Greg,” Trip says.  “It’s out of our hands.”


End file.
